Where We Began
by losing
Summary: Mycroft had just about enough of Sherlock's sulking. John had just about enough of being without Sherlock. And Sherlock was willing to start over from where it had all began. - Angsty Johnlock feels with a fluff ending. -
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** Hey guys. I don't exactly know where the inspiration for this one came from. It was one of those late night things where I just had a lot of angsty Johnlock feels. John's chapter will be up within a few days.

* * *

Sherlock swallowed tensely as he watched the grainy video feed on the monitor in front of him. He shot his older brother a murderous look, only to have Mycroft return the glare tenfold. Why was he showing him this, a video feed of John in their flat at 221B? The man sat alone in his favorite armchair and stared blankly at the wall.

"When did you have a camera installed Mycroft?" he asked bitterly. "Or, more importantly, _why?_"

"Why, Sherlock? Why? Really?" his brother returned.

Sherlock sighed. It wasn't exactly his most eloquent comeback.

"Look at him," Mycroft continued. "He does that every evening. You're going to lose him if you don't stop acting like a prat."

And that's when Sherlock saw it. He leaned in towards the small screen. Yes, it had just been a flash, the quick glint of metal, but there was no denying it. A handgun rested in the lap of John Watson. His index finger stroked the trigger absentmindedly. The doctor's muscles were tense, his jaw clenched, and his eyes unfocused. Sherlock drew in a breath. Surely, it couldn't be. Surely the good doctor would never—

John placed the gun to his lips. The movement was subtle, not a violent barrel-to-teeth action, but it spoke volumes to Sherlock Holmes. It showed a man who was tired, a man who was on the verge of giving up. It showed him how lost he had left his only friend.

For the first time ever, Sherlock was ashamed of himself.

"As well you should be," Mycroft interjected, reading his brother's emotions. "You're being selfish."

Sherlock felt the look of disdain darken his features. How dare Mycroft berate him about John? He knew nothing of the situation. He couldn't come back, not yet. The timing wasn't right. And he voiced just as much to that irritating gnat that shared his blood.

"Oh come off it, Sherlock. The _right time_ for you will be too late for John. It's time you stopped hiding like a child and face your problems."

"What do you care of John and my _problems_, Mycroft?" he hissed. He had never taken his eyes off the video feed. He was watching John's every movement, waiting for something dreadful to happen but hoping with every fiber of his being that it wouldn't.

"I care when your narcissistic actions push a desperate man to committing suicide! You care for John. And for the life of me I can't figure out why, but he cares for you. Now I don't care that you have to hide form the rest of the world but there is no logical explanation as to why you have to hide from Dr. Watson."

Sherlock sat there as his brother scolded him. He felt a flush of embarrassment color his face. He was confused as to what he felt for John Watson. Not confused in the sense that ordinary people, dull-witted people, are. No, Sherlock knew what he felt, but not what it _implied_. He cared for John. That was true. Currently, he felt so worried about the man's well-being he was actually a little nauseas. The pang in his chest as he watched John walk away from his grave all those months ago was a clear indication that his friend had become more than his friend.

But that complicated matters and so he hesitated. He'd had to falsely confess to the only person who had ever believed in him that he'd been a fraud. He'd had to discredit himself to the one man who hadn't shied away from his… eccentricities. How could he go back to him after that?

"He doesn't want to see me," Sherlock muttered.

"For goodness' sake, Sherlock, does that look like a man who doesn't want to see you?"

Sherlock tried not to let his emotions show, as they were weak points, and he'd be damned if he let Mycroft see his weak points. "I lied to him. I'm not who he now thinks I am." He let his eyes stray from the screen to the floor.

"You won't know what he thinks of you unless you ask him," Mycroft countered. "Look, Sherlock, we could go all ten rounds about this. I just wanted to make you aware of what your decision has led to. Do with it what you will."

Mycroft strode from the room. Sherlock watched him go. Then he looked back to the monitor. John had lowered the gun, but it still sat in his lap, looking menacing. Sherlock sat there a moment more before he reached into his pants pocket and withdrew his phone. He opened a message to a number he had often looked at, but hadn't sent to in months.

_Angelo's. Twenty Minutes._

_ SH_

Sherlock watched the screen and the blurry form of John as he waited for him to receive the message. There was a fuzzy ding from the speakers and the doctor jumped. He picked up the mobile device sitting on the coffee table and there was a moment of utter silence. Sherlock held his breath. John sat, completely frozen, for a full minute before he dropped the phone. The sound of plastic clattering on the floor seemed to shake him from his shock. John was standing in a flash. He moved quickly towards the door, off camera, but Sherlock caught a muffled shout that made him give a hopeful grin.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out. Don't wait up!"

Sherlock got up and switched off the monitor, but not before casting one last glance to John's favorite armchair, and the handgun resting forgotten on the cushion.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **Wow. You guys are great. So much support already. I've got a few other stories I've been neglecting, but seeing as I already had this chapter written and you guys have just blown me away with your liking and following, I decided what the heck? Might as well post.

Thanks go to: **Totallynewmerlinfan2013, Sir Sherlock of Tardis, jenpix, Pyroclast17, Imutaski, **and** greenwitch88 **for their likes/follows!**  
**

* * *

John cleared his throat in the empty room and readjusted his grip on the gun in his hand. He stared at the wall opposite him and tried to quell the storm roiling in his head. There were so many things he had left unsaid to Sherlock; the times he wanted to tell him what a twit he had been, the times he wanted to tell him his deductions were brilliant, the times he wanted to tell him that he _cared_ for him. But what good would it have done in the end—

The _end_.

Sherlock had left him in the end. He'd seen death before. He was an invalided army doctor, for Christ's sake. He'd had men die in his own hands. He'd taken a bullet himself. But nothing, not his time spent in Afghanistan, not his time spent studying crime scenes with Sherlock Holmes, had prepared him for the utter horror at seeing his closest friend bleed out on a London sidewalk.

He placed the gun to his lips, let cold metal meet soft flesh, and closed his eyes tight against the vivid memory that flashed through his mind. He just wanted it to **stop**. He wanted it all to go away. He stroked the trigger tenderly, as though he was caressing a lover… as though he was brushing dark curls from sharp cheekbones. He supposed he could take another bullet easily enough—if it would mean the end.

He had been so alone in London before he met Sherlock. He had been too miserable to barely leave that sorry excuse for a flat he had been living in. But Sherlock had brought so much happy change to his life. Sherlock had been a man who finally understood John's turmoil, something his own therapist still didn't see. Sherlock was someone he felt comfortable with. Not to mention all the others that had been brought into his life since he first agreed to move to 221B. There was Greg Lestrade from Scotland Yard, Molly Hooper from St. Bart's, even Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, the only two who still came to check up on him now and then. Mrs. Hudson would make him a cup of tea and try to distract his dark thoughts by prattling on about crap telly. Mycroft, he suspected, only came around to slowly collect what remained of his brother's possessions.

John secretly despised him for that, for taking away what little of Sherlock remained in the flat. Little by little, John was left with barely anything to hold on to. Sure, he had the couch that he imagined still retained the impression of Sherlock's body as he so often stretched out on the cushions to think. He had the chair the enigmatic detective would perch on, steepled fingers under his chin, as he deduced and re-deduced every aspect of a case. And, John thought with a small pang of embarrassment, he had the pillows resting on his bed that had once been on Sherlock's.

He pressed the gun a little harder into his mouth. _Oh god_, he just wanted it to _stop_.

The piercing sound of his ringtone made John jump. He knew that tone, but couldn't believe it was playing. Was it a joke? He set the gun in his lap and reached for his mobile. His shaking fingers could barely unlock the device, and when they had, he stared at the screen in disbelief.

_Angelo's. Twenty Minutes._

_ SH_

**No.**

No, surely it couldn't be. It had to be a prank. Probably Mycroft. Though, John wondered, would the older Holmes brother be so cruel? Whatever the reason, he had to investigate who the bloody hell thought it would be okay to send him a message from the mobile of his dead friend.

He sprung from his armchair, leaving the gun on the cushion, and made a dash for his coat. As he swung the familiar material over his jumper, he called to Mrs. Hudson as he shot down the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out. Don't wait up!"

As he set down the sidewalk in he chilly evening air, John tried to keep his thoughts objective: Find out who the imposter was, because it just had to be an imposer. There was no other logical explanation. And then proceed to beat the ever living shit out of them for playing sick games with him.

Still, John couldn't help the small sprout of hope blossoming in his chest.

Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock had heard him and had performed one last miracle, just for him—just for Doctor John Watson.

* * *

**AN: **One chapter left. The reunion. Gee.

I think I should explain the title. I feel that in A Study in Pink, the Angelo's scene, besides being completely adorable, was a big setup in the Johnlock ship. As it's been said, "When the world's most observant man thinks you're flirting with him, you probably are." I feel that this scene, as early as it occurs in their relationship, is when they both realize that attraction, or at least its potential. It's the beginning, so to speak.

Now, explanations aside, I'd also like to thank you for reading and shamelessly plug my other Johnlock fic, **A Man Rather than a Machine.** It's set up like this one-one Sherlock chapter, one for John, and then a final with both. It's also long overdue for an update. So, I'm going to go work on that.

Again, thank you so much for reading and I hope you're looking forward to the finale!


End file.
